


Running Up That Hill

by squishyflamingo



Series: Mystery of Love [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Humor, Gen, God Ships Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Hugs, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley, M/M, Protective Crowley, Sentient Bentley (Good Omens), Song Lyrics, Swearing, The Bentley Ships It (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-08 05:44:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21230753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squishyflamingo/pseuds/squishyflamingo
Summary: Tell me, we both matter, don't we?





	Running Up That Hill

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd, un-britpicked, and definitely an amalgamation of everything that I adore about this fandom/these babies.

** _Love consists of this: two solitudes that meet, protect and greet each other._ **

Crowley, for good reason (though he semi-affectionately adored most of the world and all its people) retained a permanent but healthy dose of skepticism.

It goes without saying, if the last 6,000 years…alright, during his entire existence, that one couldn't be too careful with a Good Thing. The smouldering internal scar left from when he fell was a heavy reminder...too much of a Good Thing was like provocation. 

Not even too much sugar, MSG, micro-transactions, sex, alcohol, or physical _ stuff _ in general _ . _

Even if it _ had _been Her will for the Apocalypse to not happen. The newly coined Almost Apocalypse, or Notpocalypse, The Little Apocalypse that Couldn’t (cheers for that one, Wensleydale).

It was a working title.

So one could not blame the demon for coming up to Aziraphale's re-instituted bookshop, lowering his sunglasses to sneer at what looked suspiciously like an angelic circle of protection with candles et al along the street, mostly inconspicuous. His Enochian was rusty at best - if you don't use it you lose it - but he was not thick.

He had to be logical about this, as surely if it WAS a protection circle to ward him off it had not been placed there by his angel...er, the angel. Aziraphale had been the one to suggest dinner at an Italian place in Covent Garden that boasted "more than 300 global wines!"

Crowley hadn't said anything since being invited to ruffle the angel's feathers the wrong way, which left only one highly inconvenient and abysmal option.

Another of the Holy bleeding Order was there. 

A week. A WEEK OF FREEDOM.

_ Bugger me_, he hissed to himself. Alright, no need for hysterics. Keep it together. He snapped his fingers, and now with mobile in hand, he tried to ring the daft Principality's ancient landline. 

It rung. And rung. You get the gist. Unsuccessful, he ran his free hand over his face, and in a moment of desperation, turned to passersby until he located one that seemed OK with being accosted into "kicking over a candle just near that bookstore, and smudging some chalk for good measure." That turned out to be a curvy goth girl who did both requests without question and aplomb as if she did it every day, then rejoined her friends, who all waved enthusiastically at Crowley. Shouts of "slaaay, Spook Daddy~" followed in their wake.

He fought a strange flush at the attention - 21st century women really were enigmas. What did THAT say about Her?

But back to the task at hand. He was about to possibly be heading into danger - so very inconvenient - but Heaven couldn't take Aziraphale. 

He'd burn the whole place down if he had to. That was one very important thing Crowley had learned about himself after facing off with Gabriel, Beezlebub and Satan. No matter how much he’d wanted to go back to the Good Place...well. 

Perhaps Heaven was indeed a place on Earth.

The store doors slammed open dramatically with the intent of a foolhardy entity that had no real plan except that they're fueled by the innate desire to windmill anyone harming what's theirs until the fallen Seraphim hears…Music?

Singing, to be more precise.

Dear God, or Someone, had they actually come to kill his friend with the Sound of Music?

But as he gets closer, some sort of battle cry at the ready, he finds no one on the first floor, so he barrels upstairs to the second, throwing open another door into a modest bedroom he’s never been in.

Had he slept the night of their body swap? Had he fuck. That downstairs bookstore backroom had become a confessional until they’d met up again in St. James Park.

Crowley expected the angel to be writhing in pain, in fetters and chains, refusing to be made prisoner.

What he bursts in on is The Flower Duet from Lakmé. 

Mind you, opera is not entirely Crowley's cup of tea, or wine, but Aziraphale had so loved to go when they were in Paris, even after nearly getting beheaded. The demon had that teary, besotted look on the angel’s gorgeous face when Lakmé and Mallika sang in harmony soldered into his brain.

Which was the same look Aziraphale wore now as the intruder in front of him sang both parts of the duet by way of a minor miracle.

It really was quite breathtaking, but he remembered his not real rescue plan and shouted, "Oi! Who in the hellfire are you?"

Solid introduction.

The singing stopped, Aziraphale broken from some kind of spell as he popped up off a chaise with the most endearing smile directed toward him. Crowley certainly did _ not _ wriggle like a sun warmed reptile at the sight.

"Oh, my dear, this is--"

"Crowley!" The intruder turned around, addressing the demon like an old mate, which they definitely were _ not._

The angel appeared to be inherently female, with apple red cheeks, soft, golden curls and big, Eden green eyes (stock celestial model), but there was still a distinct androgyny about them. Their attire also reminded him of Paris in the 18th century - some sort of Lolita get up with more frills and frippery than Crowley could frankly be arsed with.

He did miss a simple a-line skirt and black silk something fierce when in a particular mood.

"Sorry, don't recall you at the pow-wows in Hell and I'm fairly certain I would've noticed an actual cream puff waiting to be eaten alive in the 3rd circle."

Aziraphale is abashed and finally marched over to his friend, using a stage whisper, "Darling, sweetness, this is Ambriel."

Ambriel followed suit, flouncing over in a decidedly ridiculous fashion, which distracted Crowley from being called “darling” and “sweetness” all in one sentence, "Please, Zira - I take no offense that he doesn't remember me. It’s quite literally been eons. I am Ambriel, guardian angel. You can use she/her pronouns for me if you like!” 

Crowley is not given a moment to remark on that, or protest as Ambriel goes in for an overly aggressive hug. 

He shoots Aziraphale his most unimpressed frown over her head. 

The angel is stuttering, fearful the occult creature may do something rash, specifically involving incineration.

“Angel? What in the divine fuck isss going on?” Now he’s gone and done it, he’s so upset that he’s in full blown serpentine vexation. “What wasss I meant to think with an angelic circle around your bookshop? I ssspoke to people, angel, ssstrangerss off Greek Street to break the circle for me!”

Aziraphale is stricken by this, and for some reason Ambriel lights up so brightly that Crowley almost wants to ask if they had been short-handed when Jesus was born, and was she coerced into doubling as the Star of Bethlehem to lead the wise men to the stables?

“There's no need to fret, my dear boy, she is--”

“Don’t you dare ssay ‘a friend’--I’ve had to go through you being disscorporated once in my immortal life, which iss one time too many, and watched asss your heavenly hostsss upstairs--” He'd nearly given up the ghost then, reeling himself back in before he reveals how devastated he was when Gabriel told him (posing as Aziraphale) to just “shut up and die already”. His own compatriots. It’s not as if he’d held them in high regard in the first place, Gabriel had been a perpetual ball-buster, but...

_Aziraphale._

Ambriel backed up, holding out her hands as if placating him. She also reigned in that jarringly winsome personality to get down to the nitty gritty of why she was there, encroaching on their bubble. Which was all of Earth. Most of the stars. Alright, the entire universe. “The protection circle wasn't just meant for demons. It could keep out anyone. I'd hoped you'd be shrewd or incentivised enough to break through it."

Crowley's slit eyes narrowed further, as if that would help determine the validity of such a statement.

Angels should not be able to lie.

However, he did not miss her word choice. _ Incentivised_.

"I've essentially defected from the Order. Not Heaven itself! Let's just call it personal disagreements with how upper management have been handling major decisions without consulting the CEO the last millennia. So I took my chances, since Zira and I were acquaintances. I trust him implicitly, and…"

_ You_, Crowley gathered she wanted to add. _ I trust you_. But _ why. _Aziraphale had known him for so long, their banter back and forth second nature about who would come out as victor in the End Times. She didn’t know him, they had no Arrangement, so shouldn’t she be ready to rumble with him at any moment?

_ She was too familiar. _

Ambriel must have been able to tell he was highly unconvinced and kept trying. "I, uh, have intel from upstairs that should help with this whole Post-Notpocalypse mess. As well as important matters to discuss with you, and some of your human colleagues, but thought it better if we made the trip to Tadfield together. If you are amenable.”

He was about as amenable as a basilisk unable to render its prey dead by gaze alone. He was about the _ amenable _ her out a window.

She knew about Book Girl, Marsupial Boy, and the Them. His protective instincts were about to boil over.

Aziraphale was quite supportive of her as he sat in stony silence, and as the angel gave a raving review it softened his rough edges.

To be hypothetically realistic (ngk), a guardian angel usually did know what’s best when it came to matters of potential altercations, or all-out war between Humanity, Heaven and Hell.

If he recalled correctly, they were fairly decent strategists. Tinker Tailor Paragons of Virtue.

_ Fiiiine. _

“You want to go to Tadfield - then we leave now, but we’re taking the Bentley. The sooner we get this is over with, the better.”

If one could get an event potentially worse than the Apocalypse “over with”.

It had been a lovely pipe-dream to make believe they had more time to be on Their Side before everyone cottoned on to their switcheroo. To allow them to put their guard down. 

Shit the actual bed.

“Oh, but what about dinner?” Aziraphale interjected, half-parts hopeful and all-parts panicky.

Crowley hated when Aziraphale did that _ thing _ with his features. Like transfiguration magic that only worked on him. Unfair, un_holy, _that was some demonic bollocks right there.

"Dinner first, but only ‘cause getting pissed up on more than 300 global wines sounds like a cracking idea."

\---

Mr. A.Z. Fell's reservation for two became three, a first for them both.

And what's worse is as they were seated a few patrons perked up in Ambriel's presence, followed immediately by gossip.

Crowley absently pulled out a chair for her, only to get close enough to ask, "Well, you're not a mafia don or Colin Firth, so why the furtive glances?"

Ambriel followed his gaze (was able to do so even behind his sunglasses) and waved quite blithely at a couple mid-bite of their burrata pugliese, "Oh, well, you know how we wear many hats - I'm also the angel of communication."

Crowley had been expedient enough to also pull out a chair for Aziraphale, who beamed at him, touching his forearm in gratitude. The demon's response was a strangled noise as he then seated himself; all the while their hostess miraculously heard none of this as she went through the rigmarole of specials and vino choices.

They started with a 2004 Châteauneuf de Pape. Ambriel, apparently, was another naughty angel that partook in sins of the flesh.

Ten points to Hufflepuff.

What? Just because he didn’t like to read didn’t mean that he never had. He had to entertain himself somehow around the 90s during the Afghan Civil War. 

Total write-off, by the by, hadn’t had to lift a finger or toe to entice anyone.

"Oh, love, you were saying?" The higher ranking angel continued from where his fellow heavenly coworker left off.

Love? _ LOVE? _

_ 9,000 POINTS FROM HUFFLEPUFF, EXPULSION, GIVE ME YOUR WAND. _

_ Shit, it’s not as if _ ** _she _ ** _ called Aziraphale love, mate. You need to buck up your ideas. You’re spiraling. Ground control to Major Tom. _

"Yes!" Ambriel clapped her hands together like the former manic cheerleader-but-also-rugby-loosehead-of-Paradise that she was. "Specifically, I am the angel of mental clarity and positive communication. I guide humanity if they pray for awareness of self or have doubts regarding intentions."

They were interrupted by the wine being poured - Aziraphale made a show of sifting the decadent red around in his glass, hand properly placed on the stem, complimenting on its bouquet or whatever winos did -- Crowley was just enjoying the unmarked line of his partner's pale throat, alabaster skin drinking in ambient restaurant light until it appeared to glow.

You know, normal observations hellish fiends had about their "sworn enemy".

Ambriel caught him in the act, mouth curved in silent challenge. He shot her back his most sardonic “fight me, bitch” scowl.

Too fucking familiar.

"I started out in temple, then church--”

“Does that only work on humans, or otherworldly beings as well?” the demon inquired, lips pursed, distracting himself from Aziraphale whilst simultaneously rattling the _ petite ange. _

Ambriel, for the first time, floundered slightly at this. He could picture her wee wings dropping. Oh, well that’s certainly curious. 

"I know it's a bit moot point at the moment, but she's currently a pop artist, and though I'm not ah, as much of a fan of that particular genre, her positive messages have inspired thousands, maybe even millions!" The Principality gushed with a toast. 

An ugly, twisted slithering of jealousy coiled in Crowley's gut.

Famine in Ireland, droughts in Africa, slaughters in the Congo. He always joked about what they got up to in Eternal Damnation, but the more the angels hyped themselves up the more flashes of too many wars, too much death, were an incessant drill between his ears that had begun and yet to stop ringing since time immemorial - like the blood soaked beaches of Normandy, standing amidst the wreckage of so many nations, sulfuric mustard gas and crimson staining his fingertips.

He’d been perhaps too good at knowing which compounds and chemicals were the most lethal...it had just come so naturally, like it used to when he moulded the lovely starstuff She’d left him to create with. 

_ Crowley_. He could have sworn he heard Her voice when he’d lingered there in desperately dug trenches, boots sinking into sifting sands to swallow him whole.

“Crowley, darling,” Aziraphale tried again, snapping the fallen angel from his bleak reflections.

“I helped create Nickelback,” Crowley blurted out. “For a brief glimpse in history everyone hated Canada. I truly peaked then. Can't take credit for that Bieber lad, though. Pretty sure he's a really shite incubus, and as the youths say, 'I don't fucks with that'. Gives a bad name to temptation."

Ambriel choked, attempting to surreptitiously spit out some of her drink as the rest had shot part way up her nostrils.

Aziraphale tried and failed to muffle a snort behind his palm, Cambridge blue eyes cutting to him in fond aggravation. ‘_Wiley old serpent.’ _Though his glance lingered, probably wondering what had caused him to drift off.

Crowley winked, quite pleased with himself, that awful reminder of senseless destruction fading away as he sees more and more of this interloping angel's real self shining through.

Ambriel segued to her peer, as if their jobs, their titles weren’t utterly useless these days, "Zira, honestly, you’re one to talk. What you did with the LGBTQ+ community is absolutely inspiring. Gay affirming Christian churches - I've never felt such an outpouring of agape love. Would've taken my breath away if I had any!"

Aziraphale squirms, practically melting into his chair as his demon companion's ginger eyebrows are damningly loud in such a public place. 

He doesn't mean it to be damning and scoots his pinky incrementally over to one of the angel's, the one clad with a ring.

"Well, a great man once said…'be kind to one another.'" Aziraphale left it ambiguously as that, round chin propped up as he twirled his wine glass.

As ambiguous as quoting Jesus Christ himself could be between the three.

His pinky stroked Crowley's once. Once was enough to discorporate him entirely, but he managed.

Ambriel, true to her angelic position, flawlessly changed the subject once more.

Crowley did not let up on his merciless teasing and they even had a rather amiable if heated debate about The Almighty when examining New and Old Testament depictions of God. 

“It’s the same as Rowling being allowed to retcon her plot points as often as she does. She means well, but something’s gotta give," Crowley reclined with a gangly leg kicked out in triumph.

Aziraphale and Ambriel shared twin grimaces, unable to pull together a valid enough counter argument for that. They attempted to discuss classical music and Crowley leaned back cozily, teetering on two chair legs as their waiter served piattini di salumi, formaggi, a 2000 Château Cheval Blanc, grandi piatti and so on.

Said waiter was not-so-secretly enjoying their nattering. (They'd find an extra £100 waiting for them after the eclectic trio had vanished, rendering them unable to decline a such a generous, needless "tip".)

The atmosphere is...nice.

Crowley had trouble maintaining his skepticism, and it irked him well into the last creamy spoonfuls of his tartina di fico. Lured into a false sense of security during dessert, that clever shrew.

Ambriel, an entire hotel’s worth of sheets to the wind, had forgotten to sober herself up. She offered to pay when the cheque came and when Aziraphale made a selfless grab for it she was faster, stashing the entire book under her arse. The Principality is scandalized by this, not knowing what to do.

For the first time that night Crowley barked out a laugh that had Aziraphale giving him Flower Duet Eyes, if he had the wherewithal to notice whilst cackling.

\---

Even half past 10 at night on a Wednesday the M40 is gash.

Crowley had sobered up and, as promised, headed eastward from Covent Garden straight to Tadfield.

Ambriel had done nothing of the sort, giggling in the back seat of the Bentley.

"Thank you...for so readily agreeing to this. I understand she hasn't elaborated on this int..entail…" The way Aziraphale's pert nose scrunched was adorable.

No, not adorable. It was sacrilegious.

"Intel, angel; just short for intelligence or reconnaissance. Blimey, it's really no surprise you bumbled into a situation with Nazis."

"Get stuffed, you hypocrite, we both were bamboozled by Sargeant Shadwell."

"Touché, and look at you! 'Get stuffed.' As I live and breathe,” Crowley all but purred, flying down the motorway. He did take particularly salacious pleasure when the angel got spicy. 

“Oh, don’t get so excited, my dear boy.”

The night had successfully turned itself around, or so Crowley thought. 

The Bentley had other ideas, as a self-proclaimed matchmaker that was on series six, episode 5 of these two idiots’ slow-burn bullshit. If it had to endure another of the infernal’s lovelorn car rants it was going to drive itself into the Thames. 

Ambriel had been doing a commendable job, but as she was currently a liability, the Bentley would take it from here.

_ Someboy to Love? No, no - too obvious. Made in Heaven? Oof, too somber. Something playful that they won’t be expecting, but surely the flighty angel will get. _

_ There we are! _

_ Good-Old Fashioned Lover Boy it is. Get your house in order, gents. _

It was thankless work, but worth it.

"How fantastic, your car is serenading you!" Ambriel squealed as the first piano notes rang out, and like a carpool karaoke champion, proceeded to sing along with dear old Freddy.

_ Huh_, Crowley tapped to the jaunty rhythm, _ Haven’t heard this one in a few centuries - wait a minute. Bentley_ was apparently gagging to be dismantled within an inch of its nuts and bolts after only being recently brought back.

Traitor. That fucking grass, and it would be too obvious if he tried to turn off the radio at this point.

Crowley clutched the steering wheel in a death grip and couldn't find it in himself to sneak a peek at Aziraphale, who had not heard this song, despite Queen perpetually playing from the sentient vehicle since Queen formed, and was listening intently.

It was fine, this is TICKETY-FUCKITY-BOO and in no way a strangely fortuitous call-out of his surely unrequited feelings for the Principality.

As the tune continued to trickle from the stereo Crowley racked his brain to recall if Farrokh Bulsara had been a prophet by some stretch of the imagination, because _ what were these lyrics, how had he never really paid them much mind _-

And then it gets to the last verse.

_ Dining at the Ritz, we'll meet at nine precisely _

_ (One two three four five six seven eight nine o' clock) _

_ I will pay the bill, you taste the wine _

_ Driving back in style, in my saloon will do quite nicely _

_ Just take me back to yours that will be fine _

“Come on and get it~” Ambriel belted out with a happy shimmy.

The Bentley came to a screeching halt, the guardian angel flying into the dash with frilly skirts in disarray and limbs akimbo.

She immediately righted herself by miracling into the back of the vehicle again, very sobered up.

Aziraphale fussed, but she rebuffed his mother hen concern, saying urgently to Crowley, “Please don’t be angry - I think the car was just trying to help you--”

Angry? Don't be fucking _ angry_? He was positively apoplectic.

“I don’t need its or your help!”

He punched the car door open, dropped kicked it closed, then in his whirlwind rage, hissed “sssorry” as an afterthought. 

There was no time to properly brood, however, as the demon had serendipitously chosen just outside Tadfield to pull over in his fit.

He turned heavenward and barred his teeth. “You tight bastard. I'm never praying to you again. I shouldn’t have in the first place.”

Feeling vindicated by this statement, like telling his mum off, he made a b-line in the vague direction of Jasmine Cottage, snakeskin boots kicking up dirt with gusto.

He was over 6,000 years old, damn it, he didn't need the equivalent of the Duo Lingo pheasant incessantly reminding him he'd missed a day of Klingon, WHY DID HE EVER SIGN UP FOR THAT. OR PITCH THE IDEA. HE COULD BARELY REMEMBER HIS NATIVE TONGUE.

_ Shit, triple shit,_ Crowley cussed while King Fu fighting an invisible opponent across manicured estate lawns like a man possessed.

He was in too deep with his angel, and it wasn’t just the notion of him losing his physical vessel that kept him up when he could be having a nice kip for a month. What if Heaven took Aziraphale back, he refused and...that was what finally caused Aziraphale to Fall? 

What if it was Crowley? 

No, he refused to let that happen. That pain, that agony. And as if he were climbing the stairway to Heaven to have a real go at them, give those holier-than-thou robotic twats what for, he powered up several hills of the quintessential English village - still vaguely in the direction of Jasmine Cottage.

“Crowley, I beg of you, stop!” 

Ambriel had transported in his direct path, Aziraphale nowhere in sight. Bad move, chiclet.

“Why should I? What is your game; what do you actually have to gain here?”

She balked, about to defend herself, but he wasn’t even close to being finished.

"For an angel of clear communication it’s pretty unclear if you’re trying to be my wing-_ thing _ or you want to persuade Aziraphale back to your righteously nefarious lot! He just wants to do what’s right and you burst in saying you're on Our Side, and praising his angelic deeds in the next sentence to remind him of how _ superb_,” here he may have gotten a mite sarcastic, waggling his fingers, “doing miracles for Heaven is. Do you _ want _him to Fall? Wouldn't shock me much, pretty sure ‘gaslighting’ was one of your crowd’s masterpieces. You’d get a commendation in Hell for it!"

Ambriel is quite cowed by this, flushed with shame. "That was never my intention…I.." She flicked her wrist and summoned a small crown. At a glance it appeared to be a simple circlet, something for kids playing dress up. But upon closer inspection...they were stars. Real honest-to-Someone stars. 12 dexterously crafted orbs in a halo to suit her corporeal head.

Trauma, like being booted from Heaven, did things to your memory. Scrambled it, made you face blind, even to kind ones, to loved ones. 

Sometimes a block of a Jenga tower needed to be so gradually, lovingly placed back as to not disturb all of the other important, essential bits. He didn't do it by himself, either, but with Ambriel's own hand guiding his.

_ “Does that only work on humans, or otherworldly beings as well?” _

Gaps, like black holes, like voids, reversed themselves in miniature Big Bangs.

Crowley took off his sunglasses in disbelief. 

“I _ do _ know you. Little sparrow.”

That's what he'd called her.

Before she was a her or a they, he a him or a whatever - before any of that.

Ambriel had been tasked with helping the Cherubim at the Eastern Wall. She is a protector. Such a tiny thing, a fledgling that only knew the Good Word, and not the infinitesimal workings - she had been OK with that until a _ Seraphim _ offered to show her how he’d done up the Heavens.

The Almighty Herself had personally assigned him the task. 

They sat on Saturn’s rings, kicking ice into asteroid fields. It was simple, it was joyous and although in the vacuum of space he could not hear her laughter he knew it was there.

Her favorites were dwarf stars, which he found rather endearing, and made her a crown of them.

(One that she'd kept - sentimental moppet.)

Somewhere he could practically hear Her tsking such a frivolous use of his gift, but let it slide. Just this once.

Back in Eden Ambriel introduced him to her colleague, Aziraphale. Quite a first impression, a beautiful juxtaposition. Flaming sword, eternally sleep soft face without having ever rested. 

"Bless, but he thinks too much," she’d said, "All the time, and sometimes he thinks so much he’s forgotten about what he’s meant to be doing! Sitting up there by himself. Some of the angels say he’s odd, or inconsiderate - but I know that’s just how Aziraphale is. It doesn’t bother me, I mean...She made him just right, in my humble opinion."

One of the best opinions he’d ever heard.

He would watch her train, as that is all she had been assigned to when the first seven days of creation were over and eternity as we know it was in full swing. Aziraphale would sometimes join, and the Seraphim could tell this wasn’t something he often did - conversing.

Despite being out of practice Aziraphale was quite polite, and he knew it had nothing to do with the fact that he was speaking with an outranking angel. He was genuinely enjoying their chats - he liked him.

What a concept that two ethereal creatures of love should get along so well.

So he showed him his most-liked parts of the garden - his treasure trove of flora - that Aziraphale did not get to fully appreciate in his steadfast sentry on the Wall.

The Cherabim cooed, soothed and praised every living organism, from the acacia and cypress, to each Lily of the Valley.

If the doting attention caused the Garden to get a bit greener, happier, livelier, working his way into the intricacies of the Seraphim’s soul, he kept it to himself. 

Eve did not. 

She noticed, and with a sageness that quite literally should have been beyond her capacity, she said to the Seraphim one day amidst plaiting his scarlet hair, "The Cherabim at the Wall suites you, like Adam and I suite each other. You compliment one another."

"Compliment?" He'd echoed softly to himself. It had been buzzing in him like the sweet bees and hummingbirds that assisted in the Garden. He could not quantify the significance of it, a question always on the tip of his tongue.

"Fire and water. Night and day. It's like She thought of all things as a balance. Even the two of you."

His numerous queries could not be held at bay, could not be curbed.

_ A balance. A balance for what? _

Crowley came back to the present - sort of. Without meaning to he had frozen time, just the guardian angel and him facing off in a spiritual Western.

She took his hand, wrapped each spindly finger around the crown, “After you fell Zira was there by my side. My questions began where yours left off, and was so afraid to ask them. I mean, he was also absolutely terrified of being cast out. Despite that, you had planted a mustard seed in his heart. So the cogs kept turning until an apple-shaped wrench was thrown in them and you conveniently sauntered back up into the picture as Crawly. Then Zira gave Adam and Eve the flaming sword to keep them safe when they were also cast out. When you went to him on the Wall you must have known you’d seen your most successful, beautiful creation of all.

Marveled at the verdant garden that had grown from the mustard seed in Zira’s chest.”

Crowley didn't move. But in the same instant he was shaking apart - every molecule that made up his corporeal form vibrating, and with a gasp that practically cracked his sternum in half, time resumed.

Aziraphale caught him in sturdy arms as he fell, lifting him up and up…

"My dear? Crowley, please say something!"

In a frankly humiliating display of human emotion the only thing Crowley could do was sob so hard he was hoarse, a bronchial noise, an age-old sickness bleeding from him.

Ambriel collapsed beside them, though she was quite capable of sorting herself out.

"Oh, love. You remember, too, don't you? It's alright, let it out," the Principality urged, "I'm so sorry. So very sorry…"

Thunder clouds rolled in overhead, and such an unforeseen meteorological bother could be misconstrued as an ill omen.

In this case, it was a reminder.

The Principality was an anchor, and truth spilled from him as pearls no longer threatening to be eaten by swine, “Every time you teased - '_those mundane things that you covet _ \- _ they'll be gone' _ and all I could hear was that _ you _ would be gone. Like you were mocking me. ‘Silly angel, why must you love everything so strongly? We demons have it right - just pure indulgence without caring about the consequences.’ That it’s all I was to you - pure indulgence, a taste of what you once had. I realized...” The innocuous tartan thermos appeared, and as he held it he did as if there were a certain weight to it. "I realized it was ME that was moving too fast."

Too familiar, grasping at threads of recollection.

"That I was a hedonistic, indulgent fool that kept getting into pickles that you got me out of. No matter where I was, _ when _ I was. I'd put up my weak defenses, but I never completely turned you away. I saw something I'd never truly experienced myself. I've known it. Seen it. Felt it, as an angel is designed to do. I nearly ruined, nearly destroyed you with my selfishness to _ have _ it.”

Just as Anathema Device could not see Adam Young's aura, that was Crowley's unconditional love, having grown so large and encompassing that it could not be pinpointed easily.

Aziraphale's had been packed with the greatest of care into that blasted thermos. Irreversible, incandescent and…Ineffable.

They were so very different, yet quite the same, a waxing and waning, pushing and pulling of the tide.

When Crowley's friend reverently touched his sharp jaw the Jenga tower shattered.

_ Aziraphale, Cherabim, had been brought before all Orders for Judgement even after God dropped the missing sword subject. He'd said nothing, claimed that no one else was involved, that anyone could be guilty by association. _

_ The Order stripped two of his four wings with a demotion to Principality, to dwell on Earth - so the other Orders did not have to be bothered with such a disappointment - and with it they took his most precious memory of love. _

Crowley wrapped Aziraphale up in an embrace, quite constricting per his snake-like nature, and thankfully did not liquefy with such consecrated and hallowed riches so close.

Now it was the Principality’s turn to exhibit raw human emotion, burying himself in the crook of Crowley’s neck to, for lack of better phrasing, cry deeply.

Angels ugly cry, if anyone was up at night really mulling the Great Mysteries.

The thunder clouds from earlier, on cue, opened up in a steady downpour, and Aziraphale’s remaining two wings unfurled outward to shelter them.

Ambriel snapped her fingers, now donned in a raincoat, and exhaled unnecessarily in relief at the welcome sight.

It starts, as it will end, in a garden. In this case, the garden of one modern witch, descendant of a very accurate prophet.

The Earth seemed pleased enough that balance had begun to be satisfactorily restored, owing all the upheaval, and The Almighty whole-heartedly agreed as She set Her pen down for a little while. 

Earth was a Libra, after all.


End file.
